


The Ripper and the Black Dog

by HigherMagic



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Attempted Murder, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Dark Will Graham, Drunkenness, Established Relationship, Flirting, Gun Violence, Hand Jobs, Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Inspired by Mr & Mrs Smith, M/M, Murder, Murder Husbands, Secrets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-12
Updated: 2019-04-12
Packaged: 2020-01-12 01:24:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18436136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HigherMagic/pseuds/HigherMagic
Summary: A 'Mr & Mrs Smith' Hannigram story.





	The Ripper and the Black Dog

**Author's Note:**

> Confession: I actually reworked a TWD fic I wrote with the same premise, so if it seems familiar, that's probably why. I have a hard time believing EITHER Will or Hannibal wouldn't know their husband was up to Something Shady a la secret agent BUT that's the premise soooo.  
> Enjoy!

Will is, in a word, exhausted. It's not even midnight yet, and when the Hell did he become one of those people who got tired at eight-thirty? But it's not like he has anything keeping him awake to look forward to – the days grow shorter and Will just finds himself growing more and more tired with them.

But perhaps, tonight, he can blame it on the third glass of bourbon on the rocks that Beverly buys him, her brows creased together like they're tied by concern, her eyes dark as she shoves his glass over and flops herself onto the bar at his side.

Will huffs, and knows he's probably boring her when he says, not for the first time; "I mean, it's not like I don't still  _love_ him, or anything."

He takes a sip, hisses through his teeth, and stares morosely down at his glass. Hannibal doesn't like him going out and drinking alone – he doesn't really like the idea of Will doing anything on his own, grows restless and tense like Will being out of his line of sight is the equivalent of him walking into a minefield. But Hannibal can go fuck himself, as far as Will's concerned – at least one of them would be getting some physical satisfaction that way.

Beverly gives him a shoulder-pat that would be condescending if coming from anyone else. "It's just what happens," she says with a shrug. "Men get older, they just wanna sit in big chairs and grow fat and bald."

Will glares at her. But he also wants to laugh. The idea of Hannibal growing either fat _or_ bald is so hilariously impossible – the man has neither gained nor lost a pound since he and Will met. He has always been in prime physical condition – which Will isn't exactly jealous of, but he envies, for Hannibal never seems to work out but he's always in such great shape.

Beverly continues, nursing her beer; "It's all breakfast in bed and sex everywhere _except_ bed in the beginning. Then you get married, and it all goes away, and you have to figure out if you want to spend the rest of your life with the doughy lump."

Will glares at her, less humored now. "Hannibal is _not_ doughy," he bites out, and cuts his teeth on the ice in his glass. Will knows that particular fact intimately – his husband has always been strong, from the moment Will saw him he knew Hannibal was the kind of man capable of even throwing him around when he gets a mind to – an intuition that proved more than true, if their first years together were any indication.

Beverly rolls her eyes.

"Fine," she huffs. "I'm destined to watch Brian get fat and bald. You married a tall hottie who looks like he stepped right out of a galleria with a body even my happily-married ass wants to climb." Will hums, and drinks more. "So stop your bitching because I definitely think I have more to complain about than you do."

Will winces, staring down at his drink, which is already almost empty again. He sighs, and rubs a hand over his face, and mutters; "We haven't had sex in almost six months."

He hears Beverly's soft, startled gasp, and when he looks at her, her eyes are wide, and she's staring at him like he just told her he secretly has a tail. "I'm sorry, I think I just hallucinated. _Six months_?" she demands, and Will nods. "Oh my God, hey!" She gestures to the bartender and waves him over. " _Please_ , please give him more to drink."

"I really shouldn't," Will says, but offers his glass when their favorite bartender, Alana, smiles and refills it. Will knows from the look in her eyes she'll probably cut him off right after. She gives him another kind look.

"Boy troubles?" she guesses.

She's a civilian, she doesn't know about the kind of work Will and Beverly do, but she's friendly and nice, and has kind eyes, and Will remembers her mentioning offhandedly one time that she was tending bar to put herself through school, to get a psychology degree. She's the perfect person to vent to; patient, and understanding, and smart as Hell.

"You remember Hannibal, right?" Beverly asks, and Alana grins at her, smile turning meaningful and knowing, because the first time Will brought him here for drinks, Hannibal had made it very clear that his attention would not stray from Will for long. A different kind of regard than what he holds now; sharper, much fiercer, and much more carnal. They had barely been able to keep their hands off each other, and Will ended up on his knees for his husband after last call, pressed tight and flushed to the wall in the back alley while Hannibal fucked and filled his mouth. "Well, apparently even _that_ wildfire can be put out."

Alana blinks, before she sets a sympathetic gaze on Will. "How long has it been?" she asks, holding the bottle between her hands and resting her elbows on the other side of the bar.

Will sighs. "Six months," he says. Not that he has really been in the mood to do anything either – he's tired, all the time, and wearied by Hannibal's continued demand that Will remain in the house, or in close quarters, but he won't _do_ anything. When they'd first met, first got together, first been married, every night was wine and firelight, talks of anything and everything that struck their fancy. Then Will's job had gotten more demanding, his trips more frequent, Hannibal is always away at conferences and when he isn't, he's locked in his basement office writing up papers and notes on his patients or whatever is the _psychology du jour_.

Will loves Hannibal – deeply, the kind of bone-deep thing he knows he will never shake. Even in their mutual neglect of each other, he sleeps better when Hannibal is in his bed. It's just that…

Everything is so _lackluster_. Will has an exciting job. He goes out and catches bad guys, gets into gunfights, runs the risk of not coming home at all about twice a week. Going home to such a sweet, refined man who cooks him grand meals and speaks to softly, content to just cuddle or sit with Will – it's not the same.

Not that Will wants his home life to be dangerous. He just wants it to be _something,_ more than watching YouTube videos of fixing boat engines while Hannibal cooks, and reruns of _Friends_ while he waits for Hannibal to join him in bed, before he eventually succumbs to sleep – Hannibal stays up later than him and rises earlier, always has, and Will needs more hours of sleep than he does.

And…they are not exactly fighting. Nothing as blown-out as full arguments; Hannibal is too patient and sharp for something like that. But Will is prickly in his presence, now, and digs at him, throws barbs and sharp lures, aching for _something_ in return. A flicker of passion, even if it's anger. So he picks fights, over stupid shit neither one of them cares about, gets frustrated when Hannibal deems his broaching of stupid subjects important enough to discuss, wanting always to fix.

Sometimes Will doesn't want to talk. With Hannibal, it's all they ever seem to do. Sometimes, he wonders if he's doing it more for the fact that even negative attention is still attention from his husband, but that line of thought makes him feel small, petty, and childish, and he doesn't let himself linger long on those.

It's not healthy, and Will has often considered maybe getting more professional help than complaints at a bar, but Hannibal's a Goddamn psychiatrist, and doctors make the worst patients. He'd resent Will for even suggesting therapy, grow outraged that Will might imply there was something in their relationship they could not fix on their own.

Alana whistles lowly, drawing his attention back. "Six months, huh?" she says, and Will nods, and takes another long swallow. "Because of him, or?"

Will shakes his head, sucks in a breath through his teeth. "Kind of both," he replies. After all, it's not like he's been particularly pleasant to be around lately. When he's home, he's sullen and restless. Otherwise, he's not home, and has to maintain radio silence for the sake of his job. So, too, Hannibal only comes to him when he's not writing or researching or at one of his Goddamn conferences. Will gets restless, jittery if he stays in one place too long; he's been taking more and more jobs as a result, which of course just makes the whole thing worse.

He lets out a quiet, defeated sound, and rests his head in his hands.

"My marriage is over, isn't it?" he groans.

Beverly huffs, and finishes her beer, then Will's drink with a sharp grunt, and pushes herself to her feet. She grabs Will's shoulders, hauls him upright, and throws enough cash to cover the tab, as well as a generous tip, on the bar.

"That's enough outta you, you whiny boy," she says sharply, and gives Alana a soft farewell, before she leads him out of the bar and towards her car. "Come on, I'm taking you home."

"Should you be driving?" Will mutters, though he's hardly in a condition to offer himself as an alternative. His vision is blurred, his words soft and slurring, and he stumbles towards the passenger seat of her car as she circles it, unlocks the door, and they both slide in.

"I can get your sorry ass home. Shut up," Beverly replies, turning the car on and blasting the A/C. Will shivers, curling up in his seat, and rests his cheek against the window as she peels out of the parking spot and begins the drive to his house. It takes about twenty minutes, and he drifts in and out of attention, definitely drunk by the time she pulls in behind Hannibal's car in the driveway.

She gets out and circles the car as he fumbles at the handle, pushing it open with a loud creak, and slumps into her arms. She hauls him up with another grunt, deceptively strong as she has to be in their line of work, and slings one of his arms over her shoulders as they stumble towards the front door.

"Where are your keys?" she asks, pawing at his pockets.

"Careful," Will replies, drawling and smirking, "that's the most action I've gotten in a while." She huffs, and hits him. "Ow! Fuck." She hits him again. "I think there's a spare beneath one of the plants," he says, nudging a nearby potted cluster of flowers. They are small, purple blossoms, and Hannibal was the one who planted them. He oversaw the entirety of the well-manicured garden.

Most of the flowers are reminiscent of the ones that had decorated the hotel where they'd met – Will had been finishing a job, Hannibal at one of his conferences. He'd been sore from a good hit to the chest from one of his fights – the first of many bruises and grazes he explains away as construction accidents. He tells Hannibal he consults on new build sites, and Hannibal seems content to believe the lie – if he even knows it's a lie, he has never given any indication. Will knows he's not that stupid, but Hannibal trusts Will.

The thought makes his stomach heave in tense guilt.

Beverly is muttering about how the fuck she's meant to keep him upright and reach the key at the same time, when the porch light flickers on. Will squints up at it, blinking rapidly, and the door opens, revealing Hannibal. He's flushed with sleep and mussy-haired, dressed in pajama pants and a soft-looking black t-shirt. There's a small shadow of stubble on his face, and his eyes are narrowed. Maybe from the bright light, maybe in aggravation at being woken up by his drunk husband and his friend stumbling around and causing a ruckus at this hour.

"Miss Katz," he greets softly, and Will's eyes rake over him, his broad shoulders and chest stretching his shirt tight across them. He looks good like that, all sleepy and vulnerable and Will's for the taking. He licks his lips and falls against Hannibal's chest as Beverly shoves him towards his husband, Hannibal catching him in instinct as she dusts her hands off.

"He's officially your problem now," she says with a grin. "Nice seeing ya, Hannibal!"

Then, she leaves, and Hannibal closes the door, but Will doesn't care because he has his nose buried in Hannibal's neck, breathing in the soft sweetness of warm skin clinging to him, his hands sliding down and settling on Hannibal's hips. He's warm from the alcohol, and Hannibal is warm from sleep and from the fact that he keeps the house at a comfortable seventy degrees during all seasons. He feels soft, and sweet, and Will paws at him gracelessly, shivering as he presses close.

Hannibal makes a quiet sound, wrapping a hand in Will's messy hair. "How much have you had to drink?" he asks, that careful tone that Will knows means he's trying to hide his judgement. Will hums, doesn't answer, parts his lips and kisses wide and warm on Hannibal's steady pulse.

He smiles, when he feels it tic up a little under his kiss. "Missed me, baby?" he purrs, and wraps his hands in the hem of Hannibal's t-shirt, tugging it up until soft skin is exposed. He pulls back, sees Hannibal frowning at him, and Hannibal cups his face with both hands – not a move borne out of passion, but so that he can check Will's eyes, and his forehead for fever.

"It's late," Hannibal says with a small, complaining noise, as Will grows bored with being assessed and nuzzles his neck again. Hannibal shivers, stomach tensing as Will paws at his hips. "You should get some sleep; come to bed."

His voice is coaxing, his touch soft and intimate, comfortable as they have always been with each other, but it's not what Will _wants_ , damn it. He wants the man who fucked him in a dirty alley, wants the creature that snarls and shudders when Will touches him; wants the man who, the night they were married, fucked him on every available surface of their rented honeymoon home and then turned around and let Will return the favor.

"I'm not tired," Will replies, petulant and rough, growling the words. He tugs on Hannibal's hips, where he knows his husband is sensitive – smiles, wide and pleased, when Hannibal's eyes darken.

But Hannibal sighs, and says; "I have to catch an early flight in the morning." He's placative, almost apologetic enough to appease Will, except it's another verse of the same damn song they've been playing for months now. Early mornings, long days, lots of work to do. When did that work become more important than Will?

But that's a childish thing to think, and he shoves it down viciously.

Hannibal sighs, and pulls away from him. "I need to get some sleep," he says gently, and touches his fingers to Will's jaw when Will growls. "Come to bed when you're ready."

Will nods, too drunk and too angry to give chase – if he does, with his training and skill, he might do something terrible to this man, and he loves Hannibal far too much to be mean to him, to force him to do something he's not in the mood to do. So he stands in the hallway, cold and bereft, and watches as Hannibal ascends the stairs. Waits, until he hears their bedroom door shut.

He turns away with a snarl, goes to their study and finds the bottle of whiskey Hannibal buys only for him. He uncaps it and takes two long swallows, and brings it to the couch. Their television is huge and has over a thousand channels, but Will doesn't turn it on. He doesn't want to watch another stupid show. He doesn't want to sit down here and brood while Hannibal waits for him upstairs.

But Hannibal didn't wait up for Will, and now that Will's home, he didn't insist on Will coming to bed with him. Rejection, fierce and clawed, burns in his chest, and he flops down onto the couch with another weak sigh, closes his eyes, and lets the drink overtake him and drag him down to sleep.

 

 

He's roused by a loud chime from his phone, and groans, wincing at the sharp ache of a hangover piercing his forehead and straight to the base of his skull. He fumbles blindly for his pocket, taking out the phone as it chimes again, and he squints at the screen.

 _New Assignment_ , it reads. All his texts are coded in such a way, until he opens his phone and puts in a second password to access them. It's not the most secure thing in the world – most of his fellow agents use completely separate phones, a multitude of SIM cards and all that other shit, but he's never been particularly popular in the real world, and it's not like he's going to get a phone call from his husband in the middle of a job. He never does.

He opens the text chain. The number is unregistered, but it's always Beverly who sends him assignments. He opens his phone, types in the passcode, and squints when the file comes up, giving him an overview of his next target. There's a picture, last known location, all the good shit.

He sits up, rubbing his forehead savagely, and grunts in pain. Christ, he really did have too much last night, and without any water or painkillers taken before bed, his head is on fire and throbbing dully.

 _New Assignment_ , the message reads; _Target: Mason Verger. Patron: Margot Verger. Last known location: Baltimore, Maryland._ A local; no wonder Beverly sent it to him. _Considered heavily armed and extremely dangerous. Attempt to take alive but kill if necessary. Reward: $200,000._ He clicks on the file to see a picture of the man, finds a shot of someone no older than himself.

It's not a mass assignment – those read differently, and tend to run upwards of seven figures. He groans, rolling onto his back on the couch, squinting up at his phone, and then when his head hurts too much to focus, he throws it to his feet.

He sits up again, and his eyes travel to the glass coffee table in front of him. His whiskey bottle is no longer there. In its place is a glass of water on a coaster, a bowl of cereal with a separate cup of milk so it doesn't get soggy, two slices of toast on a side plate, and two painkillers set at the corner of the tray on which it all rests.

Will smiles, overwhelmed with affection at the sight. Hannibal has always been so good to him, even when they fight, even when Will does stupid shit like going out drinking and waking him up at all hours. He's a lot less petty when it comes to Will – or at least, a lot less stubborn, willing to be the one to offer the olive branch when Will picks and bites at him.

He reaches forward, and picks up the folded notepaper tucked beneath the plate, unfolding it to see Hannibal's graceful, arcing script covering the page. It's a lot easier on his eyes than the text message. It reads:

_Will,_

_I apologize for leaving without a proper goodbye. I will be attending a conference in Miami for the rest of the week, and should return Monday barring any travel delays._

_I love you very much. Be safe._

_Hannibal._

"Asshole," Will murmurs, but there is no heat to it. Hannibal always makes him feel, effortlessly, both adored and chastised with something as simple as breakfast and a note. He folds the note and tucks it beneath the plate, and pours the little cup of milk over his cereal. Hannibal knows his stomach is well-versed in an overindulgence of liquor, but Will appreciates the plain offering, knowing he's in no condition to attempt grease or anything too heavy. He stirs the cereal and takes the pills with half the water.

Halfway through the bowl of cereal, he's feeling a little better, and starts to munch on the offered toast.

He should really try and make it up to Hannibal, so that at least they could both say they were trying, were putting in the effort to make their marriage work. Even if it ends up falling apart, Will won't let it be said he didn't make an effort, as is his due. When he'd left last night, Hannibal had been in his office for the better part of an hour, buried nose-deep in journals and studies on whatever the Hell he was writing his next paper on; probably a speech, and research for this conference.

Will had taken one look at his closed door, assessed the situation and deemed it not worth pursuing, and gone out. There were so many nights like that between them now; Will, bored and restless until he decides to drink or go to sleep, Hannibal crawling into bed hours later, both of them too tired for anything more than soft kisses and a warm embrace. That's if Will wasn't bristling, and grumbling complaints at him.

Will doesn't like going to sleep first, but he's always so tired now, like a racehorse that has spent too long in the stall and is no longer fit to sprint. But he doesn't like the idea of his civilian husband being awake, if something were to happen in the middle of the night. He doesn't like the idea that Hannibal would be the first line of defense, when Will is more than capable of gunning down any sorry son of a bitch that would dare come for either of them.

If he'd stayed last night, before Hannibal went off on his trip, maybe he could have done something more productive than watch Hannibal's closed office door and complain to his friends.

He sighs, rubbing the back of his neck harshly as he finishes the first slice of toast. He rubs his wrist over his mouth to get rid of the crumbs. Well, it's good that Hannibal will be gone – Will has a job, and if he gets it done quickly, he can be back before Hannibal is. He vows, in that moment, that he will make more of an effort. He can be a good husband, a good companion to Hannibal, and if he must – and he must, he needs to, the thought of not being with Hannibal makes him tense and ache all over – he can find a way to be content with his work and home life being completely separate things.

He has to, because he loves Hannibal deeper than blood and bone, and Hannibal has always been so kind and good to him. Will isn't blind – Hannibal comes from money and status, a fine stock compared to Will's backwater roots, and he's way better of a man than someone like Will deserves. Will's life is blood and gunpowder, not higher learning and candlelight. He is brash, horrifying screams, waking shadows and terrible nightmares, not music and fine meals and the soft flicker of turning pages.

Decided, Will nods to himself, and finishes his food, standing and clearing his plate. He pulls open the file on Mason Verger after he's done cleaning up, and then, when he has confirmation of the exact last known location, he goes to the shed. It's locked, and only he has the key. Hannibal has jokingly called it his 'man cave' more than once. It's where Will claims to work on engines and his fishing lures.

And that is not entirely untrue. It's just that there is far more to this shed than meets the eye.

He unlocks it, and once inside, closes and bolts the door. He goes to the back corner, and in that corner is a hatch, that when lifted, it opens to a hollow, underground room. He climbs down the ladder and thinks with a shiver that the walls of this place might border Hannibal's basement office; so close to each other, violence and learning, and yet separated by secrets and walls.

Will doesn't particularly prefer guns. They lack intimacy, and the way he hunts doesn't allow for them, but there sits in a place of honor his pistol from his time on the force, gleaming dully, and it fits into his hand like an extension of himself. He loads the magazine and packs two extras, pulling out a duffle bag from a shelf, and places them inside. Along with that, a series of suits Hannibal has never seen. His sniper case. His knives.

Despite what the assignment read, Will doesn't get sent targets with the intention of letting them walk away. He is a killer, through and through – in and out, a quick cut or a bullet between the eyes, and then gone again like a shadow. The Black Dog that only bites once.

He shoulders his bag and carries it upstairs, closes the hatch and covers it with a coil of rope, and leaves his shed, locking it securely behind him. His phone rings – it's Beverly, because she's the only one that calls him when he gets an assignment, and he swipes to answer it. "Hey."

"Hey! How's your head?" she greets brightly, and Will huffs, rolling his eyes.

"It's fine," he replies. Dating a doctor means he gets access to the good drugs, and his hangover has been thoroughly beaten back behind food, water, and painkillers. Because Hannibal is sweet, and kind of an enabler like that. The pills won't compromise his vision or focus, but they're not going to let him suffer anything as paltry as a hangover.

"You get home okay?"

"Obviously," Beverly replies. Will can hear her rolling her eyes. "Sent an N.A. out to you this morning. You get it?"

"Was about to leave," Will says. He opens his bag and checks that the money he'd stashed here is all there, the passports should he need it, and packs an additional few changes of clothes – he doesn't think this job will take long, but he likes to scope out his target first before he strikes, like a lion might watch the movements of the gazelles from the long grasses before hunting.

He mentally scans what he learned from Mason's file as he finishes packing up his car. He takes with him no food, no other comforts – hunger makes him sharp, makes it easier to focus. He grabs his bag of toiletries from the bathroom and sets it atop his bag, before getting into his car, Beverly's voice coming in through the Bluetooth as it syncs – a silly thing, but one Hannibal insisted on getting for his car, so that he could have his hands free while driving.

Always so protective. If he only knew.

"Well, good luck! Call me when it's done."

Will nods, and hangs up the call, pulling up Mason's file in his head as he pulls away from the house, the garage door sliding shut behind him. Mason Verger, the sole male heir of the Verger meat-packing dynasty. His abuse of his sister is publicly known, and honestly that's enough for Will to want to kill him. He'd gotten his hands in the drug and sex-trafficking parts of the world, and moved his way up to arms dealer. The file hadn't mentioned what catalyst had driven Margot to put out a bounty on his head, but he's become a big enough target for Will's organization to stand up and pay attention, and that's enough for him.

His known location in Baltimore is about a four-hour drive from the house he and Hannibal own, up on the bay, and that's with no traffic. Will sighs, inwardly, and pulls onto the highway leading to the city. He doesn't like traffic around these parts – convinced Hannibal, though the man needed little convincing, to resign his patients to Skype calls and for him to solely earn his living through conference attendances and publishing papers.

"I was due to settle down a little," Hannibal had said. If Will had known just how much 'settling down' had meant, he might have changed his mind about the whole thing.

He drives too fast while he can, smiles as he imagines getting clocked by a traffic cop. A high-speed chase would certainly spice the day up, but that would draw too much attention to himself. Will is a ghost, he has to maintain that persona to do what he does.

At around ten in the morning, his phone chimes, and he pulls off at a rest stop to check it. It's a text from Hannibal, and he smiles, warm with affection when he reads it;

_Good morning, darling. I just landed in Miami. How are you?_

Will frowns. Come to think of it, he hadn't given thought to when Hannibal would have left, and had been passed out, too deep in alcohol-induced slumber to notice his husband moving around the house. Giving him breakfast. Perhaps even kissing his hair, as Hannibal is so fond of doing. Unforgiveable – what if something or someone had come for them in the middle of the night, and he'd been passed out drunk, and something had happened to Hannibal?

His fingers clench around his phone.

He resists the urge to ask what the conference is about – he has never particularly cared, nor asked, because if he starts asking too many questions about Hannibal's trips, Hannibal may feel inclined to start asking about his own, and Will doesn't have answers for that beyond his lie of construction builds. But he never comes home with blueprints, never talks about it beyond waving away concerns over scrapes and bruises he gets in his fights. Stupid.

He presses his lips together, and looks down at his phone. Types out; _Good thanks to you. Where did you go this time?_ For he knows it's Miami, but he wouldn't put it past Hannibal to simply name a famous Floridian city to save Will the trouble of figuring out precise geography, and just because he flew into that particular port doesn't mean that's where he's staying.

But that sounds too passive-aggressive, so he deletes it, and sends instead; _All good thanks to you. I'm sorry about last night._

The reply comes quickly; _Perhaps next time you will consider inviting Beverly over, instead of going out drinking._ Will huffs, fights back the urge to snap something sharp in reply – Hannibal apparently has no trouble being passive-aggressive in his current mood. Or maybe Will is reading too much into it, and the offer is genuine. It's so hard to tell with his husband. _But I understand. I love you, and I will see you Monday if you're home._

 _I will be,_ Will types back. _Love you too. See you then._

He sighs, and puts his phone in the cup holder beside his giant 7-11 Slurpee. Hannibal would have an aneurism if he knew how Will ate during his jobs. He turns on the radio with a smile, thinking of the terrified shock on Hannibal's face at the mention of such a disturbingly blue drink, and pulls back onto the highway.

 

 

Mason Verger is not difficult to find. Will watches him for a day, before he figures out that the best way to approach him would be to pose as a potential buyer. Mason does not seem like the flighty sort, but Baltimore has an airport and he doesn't want to risk losing his quarry and chasing him all over the world.

Will is a determined hunter, and he doesn't let his prey escape.

Or perhaps hunter is the wrong term – no, Will has always been a fisherman. And it is with that in mind that he shaves his face, gets his hair cut and styled into something more like what he sees on the cover of magazines like _GQ_ , and meets Mason Verger at his home to talk about buying guns.

Mason has a single guard – a great, hulking man he introduces as Cordell, who divests Will of all his weapons, "As a matter of courtesy, you understand".

Will merely nods, smiling graciously as Cordell takes away his pistol. He doesn't miss how Mason's eyes rake over him, how his lips part and his tongue licks over his lower one in a lecherous sneer, as Cordell pats Will down to make sure he has nothing else hidden.

Mason leads him to a large, brightly-lit room, encased in natural light streaming in from behind soft grey clouds, linen curtains billowing pleasantly in the light breeze coming from outside. He offers Will wine, which Will accepts, but does not drink. He knows better than to take an offer from a target.

"So, Mister Wilson," Mason drawls, sipping at his wine like a dog might lap at water, like Will might be enticed by the action. Will shudders, but allows himself to smile, to draw close when Mason watches him as Will imagines a fat cat watches a little mouse. "How did you hear of me, may I ask?"

"Word travels," Will purrs, and steps close to the other man. He smells…sick, almost, and very faintly but decidedly like old pig. Not at all like Hannibal does; paper and ink and sweet wine. Will hums, breathes in from his glass to try and rid himself of the scent of Mason, and smiles wider when Mason watches him with sharp, ravenous eyes. He reminds Will of the eyes of fighting dogs – something feral and fierce and that should be put down. "Your reputation precedes you, Mister Verger."

"Please," Mason says, and puts a hand on Will's arm. It takes all of Will's strength to make himself lax and sweet, smiling prettily as Mason grins at him, and he forces himself not to shrug the touch away. "Call me 'Mason'."

"Mason, then," Will murmurs. "And you may call me Jack."

Mason nods, and drinks noisily from his wine glass. He is such a _loud_ man – compared to Hannibal's quiet, Will feels deafened and trembling, too-new to such sharp sound. He parts from his glass with a gasp, licks his lips with a smack, and grins wide at Will. Will tightens his fingers around his glass – without weapons, he will have to use this. Cordell stands by the door, but Will has fought bigger and stronger, and much smarter men.

Mason smiles at him. "My sister told me you called her, first," he purrs. Will nods – Margot is the contact, and Will wanted to make sure she was not in the house when he struck. She is far away, she told him, gathering whatever alibi she could to cover her ass while Will did his job. "You say word travels, and yet I have never heard of you." His head tilts. "How do you know my sister?"

Will presses his lips together, dips his lashes, and says very quietly; "I'm new to the game. And my enemies are much more powerful than I am. I must be covert – I'm sure you understand."

"Of course, of course," Mason says with a saccharine smile, patting his shoulder again. "I understand – one must always bet on the underdog, I've found."

Will nods.

"But that makes me wonder about these enemies of yours. Would it be wise, I wonder, to pit myself against them?"

Will tilts his head, but is unruffled. He steps closer still. "If you're concerned about money, I have plenty of it," he promises.

"Money isn't a concern," Mason replies with a wave of his hand.

Will nods, and swallows. Looks down as though flustered, as though this is his first time doing this. Wonders, with a sour aftertaste, why it always comes down to this: why, always, his targets seem to find him more interesting as some sweet, pretty piece of ass and not whatever he tries to make them see. Hannibal is the only one he remembers ever, only, looking at him like a man and not a piece of meat.

"I can offer other things," he says quietly, even as his stomach grows tight with revulsion. He sets his glass down on the little table beside them, curls his fingers, and makes himself smile as Mason's eyes flash with intrigue. "I treat my friends very well, Mister Verger."

He steps in, slides a hand feather-light up his arm.

" _Mason_ ," he purrs, feeling how the other man shivers beneath his touch. "I promise – give me your… _patronage…_ " It's disgusting, to him, acting this way; he's never had to do this at home. Hannibal, until so recently, only needed a look, a hint of receptiveness, to lunge for Will, a helpless slave to Will in their bed regardless of how they took each other. This is something dry and gross, like a carcass left out in the sun too long. "And I'll be yours to command."

Mason hums, lashes going low over his pale eyes. He looks nothing like his sister, and Will thinks of that old children's book, that ugly thoughts beget ugly people. If that were true, though, he wouldn't be able to play this role so well.

He grins wide, and sets his glass beside Will's. Will watches his fingers release the wine glass. Measures the distance between them and the open window, the parted curtains. Assesses and notes the shift in air pressure as Mason touches his face.

He hasn't had to go this far since he got married, and his stomach turns his revulsion, his fingers curl and he fights to keep still -.

Sees a glint of steel in his periphery, from outside the window -.

And then there is a sudden jerk from Mason, and he stumbles back, his eyes wide. A single, tiny trickle of blood spills from his temple, from the clean entry wound of a bullet hole.

Will's eyes widen, and he hears Cordell give a roar of alarm from behind him. He turns his head, sees the man drop to his belly, and huffs, goes and gathers his gun and shoots the man in the back of the head without a second of hesitation.

He looks to the window. The steel is gone, and he narrows his eyes, lets his gaze sharpen. Beyond the window is a single, rolling hill, that leads down to the pens and the stables he'd seen on his way up here. He sees no movement, but he knows exactly what kind of gun makes that kind of wound – it's the same as his own sniper.

Someone else is here. Someone else got Mason as a target. Someone did the job for him.

He growls, and ducks behind the entryway to the room so that, if this unknown rival decides to keep shooting, he will not have a good line of sight to Will. Snipers are good weapons, make the kill swift and clean, but they are not adaptable things.

He hears shuffling and the sounds of men loading their weapons from behind him, and looks down at his hands. He's holding a gun, and there are two bodies in the room. No matter how he spins it, that's going to look bad.

He lifts his gun, swings around the side of the door, and fires out of the window in the vague direction of the unknown sniper, hoping to at least dissuade his nameless rival from firing again, and then steps back into the room as several of Mason's goons pour in behind him. They take one look at Cordell, then Mason, then Will, and lunge for him with a shout.

Will snarls, tucking his gun into the waistband of his suit pants, and grabs the first one. His fingers enclose around a meaty fist, and he twists, bringing the man's elbow down sharply over his shoulder, grunting in satisfaction when he hears it crack, and the man howls. He uses the man's body as a human shield as a second fires at him, felling his compatriot, and lets the body drop when the magazine clicks empty, grabs his gun and fires, killing the three others that crowd the door.

His upper lip curls, as the bodies fall in a slick mess of blood. This isn't how he likes to do things – this isn't his M.O. But if there's another assassin hanging around the place, that might work out for him. Blame it on the rival, let his sorry ass get caught for his recklessness.

His eyes move out to the field, and narrow again. He needs to find the stupid son of a bitch and let it be known that he doesn't tolerate _anyone_ encroaching on his territory.

He leaves the room, reloading as he goes, and leaves the house as more goons are heard scrambling from below, alerted by the gunshots. Will doesn't know the exact number of how many guards and peons Mason has, but he can guess it's more than a dozen.

He hurries from the mansion, but freezes as a circle of men crawl out from a side entrance, cutting him off from his car. He snarls at them in warning – no one, he is certain, is paid enough to defend a castle where the king is already dead – but the men look at him with stone-like faces, and raise their weapons.

Another gunshot rings out, from behind the men, and one falls. They jump in alarm, staring wildly around, and Will shoots at another three, before one of them gets smart, and ducks against Will's car so he's protected from the sniper. He raises his gun, and shoots at Will.

Will growls, fleeing back into the house, and clutches his shoulder. One of the bullets got him – _fuck_ , how the _shit_ is he going to explain that to Hannibal? His mind races with stupid excuses like a rogue nail gun or that he fell on a spike, as he prowls back through the house, hoping to find another entrance he can slip out of.

Stupid, this was stupid. Will should have cased the joint better, made sure he was in a room with minimal sightlines. But he'd wanted an open escape, wanted to be able to leave by window or door, and that oversight landed him with a bullet wound and God knows how many armed men after him.

His vision is blurring, his head growing heavy, and he collapses against a wall with a grunt, smearing his blood as it leaks hot and wet around his fingers. _Contamination, they'll have your DNA_ , his mind screams at him, and he shakes his head. He can't think about that now. Maybe, when he leaves, he'll find something that he can start a fire with.

He turns a corner, and freezes, when he enters a large dining room that stretches the length of an entire house, it seems like. Thirty people could fit comfortably on the sides of it. The wood is bright with polish, shining in the light, the table barren save for a single place setting at the very head – where Mason eats, he assumes.

But that is not what stops him in his tracks.

There's a man standing at the other door, on the far side of the room.

Will is weak, bleeding so heavily, but he knows those shoulders. Knows that stance. Recognizes, dimly, the fine suit and sleek hair.

"Hannibal?" he whispers.

It's impossible. What the _fuck_ is Hannibal doing here? Maybe he's losing his mind. Maybe he lost too much blood.

Hannibal gives him a smile not quite kind, but his eyes are bright. He strides towards Will, and in one hand is a case much like the one Will has for his own rifle. Will doesn't understand – is Hannibal -? Is he? He can't be – there's no way Will's sweet, _gentle_ husband is the same man who gunned down an arms dealer when he's supposed to be in Florida giving a talk on social isolation or whatever else.

Will blinks rapid-fire, gasps as Hannibal approaches him and cups his face, and he's real, he's _real_ , what the _fuck_. "Come with me, darling," Hannibal growls, and he sounds different. He does not speak with softness, with that terribly-gentle love; his tone is short and clipped, and Will realizes, as he stares up at his husband, that Hannibal is furious.

But he must go; there are men with guns trying to kill them here. He nods meekly, following Hannibal as he takes Will's bloody wrist and leads him out of the dining room, to the back door, and out where Will sees his car parked.

He laughs, borderline-hysteric. "I think I'm hallucinating," he murmurs.

"No," Hannibal says. "You aren't."

A man lunges, suddenly, from behind a cluster of bushes, and lands on Will. Will falls with a grunt, takes a hard swing and grits his teeth as the man's heavy weight lands on him. He has a knife in his hand and Will is too weak to both fight back and protect his neck, and they are locked in a fierce struggle, until Will sees Hannibal again.

He grabs the man's hair, yanks his head back, and slits his throat in silence. Will blinks up at him, gasping, panting, as Hannibal hauls the body away from Will so that only the first few spurts of fresh blood stain his clothes.

Hannibal looks down at him, and Will wonders if he's ever actually seen him before. Properly.

Hannibal's lips purse, and he takes off his jacket, wadding it up, and kneels down, pressing it against Will's shoulder. "Keep the pressure there, darling," he says, still so short and clipped. But Will understands – it's why he works solo, too. He has no patience for others getting themselves injured, and Will was stupid, leaving himself exposed to getting shot like that.

He grits his teeth and lets Hannibal help him to his feet, putting pressure on the wound as he climbs into the passenger seat, and Hannibal gets in on the driver's side. He throws the sniper case into the backseat, turns the engine on with a dull roar, and peels away from the mansion in a sharp scattering of gravel.

Will blinks, slowly, blinks again. He leans his head back and sighs heavily, closing his eyes. "You killed Mason."

Hannibal's fingers flex on the steering wheel, and curl to whiten his knuckles when Will opens his eyes and gazes at him. Will winces.  

"Will, what on Earth are you doing here?" Hannibal demands. As if he didn't see. As if he doesn't know. Will thought he was giving Hannibal the credit he was due, being blind and sweet and believing Will, trusting him. He won't make that mistake again – Hannibal's innocence has barbs, he sees them now.

"I think you know."

Hannibal breathes out, his expression black with anger as they pass through the gates of the Verger estate, and out onto the main feed-in road. "You let him touch you," he says, and his voice is a snarl now – no longer cold and detached. He's angry, he's so fucking angry, it blisters Will's skin like liquid heat. "Did you let him go anything else?"

"No," Will says, and he knows Hannibal isn't just asking about Mason. "I -. Not since you."

He needs Hannibal to believe that. Since they met, Will has never let his eyes stray, never let his hands wander. Even forced celibate these last six months, he'd never cheat.

Hannibal must believe him, for he says nothing more. Still, he is very tense, his eyes not even looking in the rearview mirror to see if they're being followed. Will's eyes linger on his hands – those hands which have shed blood before his very eyes. Those hands, that hold a gun so clean and certain he'd been confident to make a dead shot from so far away, even with Will so close. Or maybe he's so angry he wouldn't have cared if he'd missed.

Will swallows, and doesn't like that thought at all.

He looks in the side mirror, swallows when he sees a car. "We got company."

Hannibal nods. "Take the wheel," he says. "I can shoot out a tire."

Will glares at him, grunts, and hefts his pistol into his left hand. "Fuck you," he growls, and Hannibal looks at him, briefly. Even that look feels like he's being brushed off. "Don't know if you noticed but I'm more than capable of dealing with this on my own."

"Yes," Hannibal says sourly, "I noticed."

Will glares at him, and then he rolls the window down and grimaces, turning to lean out of the window.

He fires, and misses.

"Goddamn it, Will," Hannibal hisses, but keeps the car as steady as he can. Will almost wants to laugh, hysterical, because he so-rarely hears Hannibal swear. "Why must everything be a fight with you? Take the wheel and I can deal with this."

"I got it," Will mutters. He breathes out, steadies his grip, makes himself focus through the pain. He aims, and fires, grinning when the bullet goes through the grate at the front of the car, making the hood sputter and pop, the engine dying in a cloud of steam, and the car trundles to a halt. He sits back, and rolls the window up, tossing his gun into the footwell. "There."

"That was unnecessarily reckless of you," Hannibal says. "You're injured, and your aim is compromised."

"Hey, I got the fucking job done," Will snaps. "Would have gotten it all done if you hadn't intervened. It's not exactly normal for me to get injured." Even as he says it, his shoulder judders sharply as Hannibal hits a pothole. Will doesn't want to think it's intentional, but the road is wide, and Hannibal's viciousness isn't something he can ignore anymore.

"If you think I would sit quietly and watch my _husband_ get in bed with my target, you are sorely mistaken," Hannibal says sharply. He is so _angry_. Will presses his lips together, his head swimming, and he swallows harshly.

"I like making it quick," he whispers, and doesn't know why it sounds like he's making excuses. "In and out, easy. I don't like getting my hands dirty."

He looks, pointedly, at Hannibal's knuckles. They are red, and coated in gunpowder.

Hannibal hums – a short, aggravated sound. For a moment, there is static-covered silence like a bristling cat, and then; "Is there anything else you'd like to confess to me now, darling?" Will winces, for even the 'darling' is sharp and cold. "Were you actually a policeman?"

" _Yes_ ," Will snaps. "But I got shot, and I couldn't work anymore doin' homicide. Got a desk job, worked my way up." His eyes narrow, and he looks at his husband, because Hannibal is acting _real_ high and mighty considering Will's not the only liar in the car. "Conferences?"

"Some of them were genuine," Hannibal says. He snorts; an ugly noise. "Construction?"

"Easier to explain than 'Got into a fistfight with the Russian mob'," Will replies, and is so, so pleased to see Hannibal's lips twitch, hinting at the impression of a smile. His eyes, still, don't stray from the road, and Will might die if he doesn't see them soon. He sighs, and curls up in his seat, pressing Hannibal's jacket tight to his shoulder and gritting his teeth. "How long?"

Hannibal sighs. "Many years," he replies. "You?"

"'Bout a decade now, give or take."

Hannibal nods. "Will…" He breathes in, very slowly, and flexes his fingers on the steering wheel. "There is so much to say." Will understands – he would have never reconciled the sweet, conscientious man he married with the cold-blooded killer who could slit a man's throat and fire so cleanly from so far away. Even with a scope, Will's sniping ability isn't as good as that; he would have had to be closer, and risk being seen.

He's tired, so very tired, and in so much pain it's getting harder to think. "I think I'm going into shock," he murmurs, tipping his head back again. It's stupid, to expose his neck to a killer, to rely on Hannibal's love for him to save his throat, but he's tired, and he's not Hannibal's target. If he was, he'd be dead.

Hannibal lets out a quiet noise, shaken and worried. "I have some of your blood at the house," he says, and Will frowns, but can't open his eyes.

"When the fuck did you get my _blood_?"

"When you were passed out drunk, usually. Sometimes I'd give you something to help you sleep, and would take it then." He doesn't sound apologetic, nor regretful – challenging, almost, as if daring Will to find offense at that. Will can't. He's too tired. "I never took much, just a pint every now and again. I wanted to make sure that…that you would be alright, that I could take care of you, if something terrible happened."

He laughs, and the sound is strained. "How foolish I was."

Will's lips twitch. "You're a spy, then. Or an assassin. Like me." He laughs, breathy and light – it's getting harder to stay awake. His fingers twitch and tighten on Hannibal's jacket, pressing so that the pain keeps him awake a little while longer. "Of course you are. All the signs were there."

"And for you," Hannibal replies quietly. "I suspected." Of course he did. "I didn't know how to broach such a subject – it seems so insane, even when you are one yourself." Will nods, absently. "But you were always gone, for so long. You would sneak off at all hours, come home with marks on you I couldn’t explain. And for a while, I didn't want to explain."

Will frowns, and forces himself to open his eyes, head lolling so he can look at Hannibal. He's surprised to see his face tight with something like pain, eyes bright and open and something terribly vulnerable in the downward tilt of his mouth.

"Didn't want to?" he breathes.

Hannibal sighs through his nose, closes his eyes only briefly, for he is still driving, and must maintain their course. "You so often picked fights with me, and then disappeared for hours. I never smelled another man on you, nor a woman, but some treacherous part of me thought…"

He stiffens, and shivers, upper lip lifting. "And then I saw you touch that pig. Saw how you let him touch you. I can forgive many things, Will – I am hardly one to preach about the lies we have told each other. But I could not, _would_ not, forgive that, if it were true."

Will swallows. "You really think I'd cheat on you?" he demands. He forces his injured arm to move, sets it heavy and red on Hannibal's thigh, and digs in with his nails. "Hannibal, you fucking idiot, I _love_ you." And he does, he really fucking does. Hannibal looks wild, right now; hair mussy from the fight, sweat shining on his temples and a flush on his cheeks from both exertion, stress, and anger. He looks beautiful, fine and feral. Will likes him like this.

Hannibal sighs, and shakes his head. "No, Will," he says quietly. "I don't. Though many things I thought I knew about you are being assessed and shuffled, I know this; you are a frightfully loyal and honorable man, and I know you'd never betray me like that."

Will nods, sharply. "Good," he says. He's angry Hannibal would even think it, but too tired to pick and poke at it further. He has a real wound, now, bleeding and open, and has no energy to create new, emotional ones right now.

Hannibal is a monster, like him. A killer, like him. Will never would have believed it, but he has seen it for himself. Beneath the pain, beneath the confusing roll of emotional waves at this new reality, joy glimmers like a sunken treasure chest. Hannibal is _exciting_ ; he is wild, and savage, just like Will is. Together, they need not hide. Hannibal has seen the darkest pieces of Will, now, and does not recoil from it – fought for, and mercilessly killed, the man who threatened that darkness.

Will trembles, thinks of Hannibal wrapping his hands around Mason's throat if he had been close enough to do it, and feels warm for another reason entirely.

Will blinks, long enough again that his eyes almost don't reopen. He pushes against the padding on his shoulder and sucks in a breath through his teeth.

Hannibal makes a quiet, concerned noise, and drops his hand to Will's, wraps his fingers gently between Will's, and squeezes.

"Stay with me, darling," he breathes, and the engine revs as he hits the highway and steps on the gas.

Will manages a smile, and rolls his head back to the headrest. Says, quietly, "Where else would I go?"

Hannibal huffs something softer than a laugh, but bright. For that is true – Will would go nowhere else, has no need to go anywhere else, now that he has found everything he ever wanted in the man that is already his.

He sighs. "Would you have ever told me?"

"Would you?" Hannibal counters.

"If you'd asked," Will breathes. Licks his lips. "Maybe."

"Liar," Hannibal says, soft with affection. "You wouldn't have told me. You enjoy fighting with me, now." He squeezes Will's hand again, his voice gentle and strained and so sweetly vulnerable; "How long have you been unhappy?"

Will winces. Cannot answer.

"I don't understand. I thought you wanted what we had, Will. I thought you enjoyed the peace, the tranquility. I find it so refreshing, to be around you. When I thought you were gentle, and soft, and utterly mine – that reality is so starkly different from the other life I lead. I suppose I don't understand, if you don't want it too."

Will swallows.

"Please. Explain it to me."

"I get restless, Hannibal," Will slurs. "I like fighting. I like hunting, and killing. Don't you?"

Hannibal hesitates – so long trained not to give himself away. But he cannot hide from Will. Will won't let him. "Yes," he breathes. "But I suppose I find the contrast more lovely. Knowing what you are, now…. Seeing you kill those men, you were so beautiful. So capable, and strong. It was a facet of you I had never seen, and yes, I adored the sight of it. But it's a strange thing. One I am finding hard to reconcile."

"That I could enjoy it?"

"That I could have not possibly seen it." Will opens his eyes, looks Hannibal's way, finds him frowning at the road. "You are, as always, so unpredictable. But recently what we had was almost routine."

Will huffs. "I despise routine," he mutters.

Hannibal swallows. "But that routine kept us together," he whispers. "Knowing you were in the house, knowing that I could protect you, and keep you safe, and see you whenever I desired. I don't enjoy the part of my job that takes me away from you, Will. I never have."

"Someone has to do it," Will says. "We rid the world of evil men."

At that, Hannibal's eyes grow very, very dark. "Yes," he snarls, and his nails dig into Will's palm. "I have seen your method of hunting. Do you enjoy that break in _routine_?" He is angry again, spitting the words; "The touch of another man, even if all you do is let them think they will have you?"

Will snarls back. "That's the way it's always worked, Hannibal," he snaps. "You think I like them touching me? That close to him, I only ached for you."

Hannibal blinks, and swallows.

"It's true," Will says, and wishes he was strong enough to reach for his husband, to hold him for real. "I don't like doing it – but they see me as nothing more than a piece of meat. So I fight, and let them think they'll fuck me, let them think they can have me because it's the only way that _works_."

The words come out bitter, as bitter as Will feels, lemon-acid and salt and venom. He spits the words, hisses through his pain and his anger, clawing, rabidly, at Hannibal's wounded pride.

Hannibal presses his lips together. "Formulaic," he says. "You always did fashion the most exquisite lures."

And just like that, the venom disappears, leached out of him. Will collapses against the seat, unable to keep his eyes open a second longer.

"I'm sorry," he whispers. "I'm sorry I let it get this bad."

No reply comes. Will is dizzy and weak with blood loss, too heavy to keep conscious. He lets himself be dragged to unconsciousness, trusting that Hannibal will take care of him, because Hannibal has always taken care of him and Will believes that he will do so again, even with all this new, exposed truth between them.

 

 

Will wakes in their bed, an I.V. in his arm giving him his own blood from a single, hanging bag, almost empty, soft sunlight peeking in through their thin curtains. The blackout ones are drawn back, letting in the light.

He groans, and feels the air shift as Hannibal does, sighs and tilts his head into a warm hand when Hannibal cups his cheek.

"Not dead yet," he murmurs, and his voice is hoarse. He winces, and lets Hannibal prop him upright, giving him a drink of cool water. He swallows once, twice, and then the glass moves away, and settles on their bedside table with a dull noise. "How long was I asleep?"

"A few hours," Hannibal replies. The bed dips as he sits at Will's hip, idly checking the thick padding covering the entry and exit wounds in his shoulder, the uncomfortable but not too-tight bind of bandages keeping them in place.

Will opens his eyes, meets Hannibal's, finds them dark, whiskey and cliffsides, his face uncharacteristically heavy with lines. He hasn't slept, clearly. Hannibal cups his cheeks again, rests their foreheads together, and breathes out shakily.

"Knowing what I know now, I can't possibly make you promise not to do anything that reckless again," he says.

Will presses his lips together. "Tell me to quit," he whispers. "I will."

"Would you ask me to?" Hannibal asks, and he sounds genuinely curious. Almost hopeful.

Will shakes his head.

"Of course not," Hannibal murmurs, soft with resignation. Will frowns, for there is something terribly sad and sharp about the way Hannibal stares at his mouth. He reaches forward, takes his chin in hand, and makes his gaze lift. Hannibal's hands drop down, skate along his bare flanks – he's shirtless, so Hannibal could bind his wounds and attach the I.V.

"I need you to answer me honestly," Will says, and Hannibal's eyes flash. He nods. "Why haven't we…? Why won't you touch me? Why haven't you been touching me?"

He tightens his fingers before Hannibal can look away. He looks away when he's thinking, and if he's thinking, that means he can come up with a lie, or some way to soften the words to spare Will some pain. "Tell me," he demands. "The truth."

Hannibal sighs. "My entire life, I have prided myself on my ability to anticipate and understand people," he says. Will bites his lower lip, and lets his hand drop, his shoulder aching. "My assignments, my coworkers, my friends – they are all predictable people, even those who like to pretend they are not. But you…. I cannot predict you, Will, but by that nature, I found myself, for the first time, not caring that I could never tell what you were going to do next. You were like some life raft for me, attached to a boat, pulling me in any direction you pleased, and I was content for a long time, to simply be pulled."

Will frowns.

"Then you began to pull away from me. Perhaps the fault is mine as much as it is yours, and I thought, at first, that you simply needed space. You see so much, and I thought you were simply stressed, or wanted time to yourself, and I was happy to give it to you." His eyes glimmer with something soft and sad, and he sighs again. "Then I could only acknowledge that you were unhappy, but I was…terrified as to what that meant. Nothing had changed for me, and I didn't know what had changed for you. I was unable to bring myself to do anything that might make it worse."

"Because you can't anticipate me?" Will asks.

Hannibal nods. He takes Will's hand in a tender grip, threads their fingers together. Will takes his wedding ring off for his jobs, but Hannibal must have found it, for they each bear one that shines dully on their ring fingers.

"I didn't know, if I tried to correct the situation, or get you to talk about it, if you would lash out, or you would melt into my arms. The longer it went on, the more the former seemed like a possibility, and I suppose I was simply frozen in place, because I didn't know how to make it better. The boat's engine had stalled, the life raft was no longer keeping me afloat. I felt like I was drowning."

And that _is_ Will's fault, because he'd been bored, and restless, and picking fights whenever Hannibal tried to talk to him, and of course Hannibal would be afraid of making it worse. Just like Will was afraid of making it worse.

"So we're both idiots, then."

Hannibal's lips twitch in a small smile. "I suppose."

"I'm sorry I let it get this bad," Will breathes, saying the words again as Hannibal meets his gaze. Their fingers tighten around each other, lace and dig in fiercely. "I thought you were just…a normal guy. That you wouldn't understand, even if I told you the truth."

Hannibal's smile widens, though his eyes are still dark. "And now the truth is out," he murmurs. "So where does that leave us?"

"It leaves us here," Will says sharply, swallowing harshly. "Together." He jerks their interlaced hands.

The look on Hannibal's face is so terribly relieved, Will feels another hard swell of guilt in his stomach, that dries his mouth and makes him ache. Hannibal sighs, and stands, leaning in as Will lies back down and kissing his hair.

"I'll get you something to eat," he promises. "You need your strength. While you were asleep, I arranged for your car to be delivered. I'll bring in your things."

Will smiles, and nods. "Thank you."

Hannibal returns his smile, and kisses his forehead, before he draws away with another quiet noise. Will's eyes close, and he sinks into their bed, finding that it doesn't smell much like him anymore. It wouldn't, given how often he is gone from it. He'll do his damnedest to fix that.

His thigh jolts as his phone buzzes, and chimes, a few minutes after Hannibal leaves the room. He groans, and paws at it, opening it and squinting at the message.

 _New Assignment_.

"Fuck you, Bev," Will grunts, but she, of course, doesn't know he's been shot. She probably just received an update from Margot, confirming her brother's death. Will opens his string of messages, replies to the text of Mason's file saying it's complete, knowing that another $200,000 will be in his account come morning.

Then, he opens the next one.

_New Assignment. Target: Hannibal Lecter, aka "The Ripper". Patron: Anonymous. Last known location: Maryland. Considered heavily armed and extremely dangerous. Kill on sight. Reward: $750,000._

Will's eyes widen. He sits up, ripping the I.V. from his arm, his breathing growing heavy as he stares at the assignment. There it is – Hannibal's picture, his home address. _Their home address_. Beverly would have known it. She sent it to Will anyway.

She sent it to only Will – it's not a Mass Assignment. He doesn't know if she knows it's Hannibal – of course, Will gets the pictures and details but he doesn't think she looks at anything beyond location, to make it easier on Will. But she sent him _this_ , she sent him _his own husband's name_.

His breath catches, and he hurriedly shuts off his phone and sets it down when he hears Hannibal returning. The door opens, and Hannibal has a tray in his hands, a bowl of steaming soup set upon it with another glass of water and some painkillers. He smiles at Will, and goes to him, setting the tray over his thighs.

"Smells delicious," Will says, eyeing the soup.

"Silkie chicken in a broth," Hannibal answers, and brushes his hand through Will's hair. Will tries not to tense, both because his shoulder hurts like a bitch, and he doesn't want to give any tension away. "A black-boned bird prized in China for its medicinal value since the seventh century. Wolfberries, ginseng, ginger, red dates, and star anise."

Will huffs, and smiles. "You made me chicken soup," he murmurs, as warm with affection as he always has been when Hannibal feeds him.

Hannibal grins. "Yes," he says, brighter now, with happiness when Will starts to eat. Hannibal sits with him in silence while he does so, content to merely be with Will, as he always has – when they were together the few nights Will could bear it, but he knew they would only cuddle and keep themselves chaste.

He hears Hannibal's phone go off from downstairs, and tenses again. Before, Hannibal's text messages at irregular hours and random intervals had never bothered him, but now he knows the truth. He knows, just as his own message had been an assignment, Hannibal's could be one as well.

It could be _Will_.

He looks up as Hannibal sighs, and stands. He lets out a soft, desperate sound – _Don't look at it, don't look._

"I have to get that, darling," Hannibal murmurs, apologetic, but he knows Will understands, now, why he must.

Will swallows, and catches his wrist. "Kiss me?" he whispers. "Please?"

Hannibal smiles, bright with joy, and leans down to kiss him, Will's lips parting to let Hannibal lick between his teeth, tasting the broth clinging to his tongue. It lights Will up, but it's a prey-animal warmth, his heart hammering and his shoulder aching as Hannibal cups his neck and kisses him deeply. It's a touch he's been craving for months now, but now, now….

 _Fuck_.

He sets the spoon down, grabs Hannibal in turn, both hands wrapping around the back of his neck. He could do it now, he thinks; tighten his hands and twist, sharply. Snap the spine and kill the love of his life before Hannibal knew what was happening. But his body rebels against the action. He can't, he can't, he could never hurt Hannibal.

Hannibal's phone chimes again, and he pulls back with another sigh, his cheeks flushed and mouth pink from Will's kiss. "I'll return shortly," he promises, and leaves the room. As soon as he's out of sight, Will puts the tray on the other side of the bed and climbs out in a hurry. He stumbles, weak from blood loss and pain, but makes himself move. He doesn't know where Hannibal stashes his stuff – probably in his basement 'office', if it even is an office.

Will snorts, and thinks himself a fool, that he never looked.

In the guest bedroom, he has a second bag in the bottom of the closet. Inside it is another set of guns, as well as a large, serrated knife. He threads the knife through a belt loop and grabs the guns, checking that they're loaded.

He leaves the room, a gun in each hand, his heart freezing in place when he hears Hannibal near the stairs. Hannibal strides up them confidently – _Do it now, shoot him – no, no, don't you dare_. Will shrinks back, hides in the entryway to the guest bathroom, and when Hannibal turns left towards their bedroom, Will waits until he's far enough away that he can hurry down the stairs, and runs towards the garage, where his car has more of his weapons.

He can't go to the shed; he'll be trapped, there.

 _Stupid son of a bitch_.

He hears Hannibal at the top of the stairs. Sucks in a breath, and goes still, not trusting that the house will not creak or move, giving himself away. "Darling?" Hannibal calls, and Will breathes out. "Will, where are you?"

He doesn't move, stays hidden. He doesn't know what would be worse – falling for the lure and exposing himself if it was his name Hannibal read, or if it wasn't, and Hannibal finds him armed and ready for a fight.

"What's the price?" Will calls. He knows. He _knows_ it's his name. Hannibal would be trying to find him if it wasn't, to tell him he must go, must take another job to keep their income flowing. But he's not, which means -.

Which means it's Will's name he saw.

He thinks back to all the times he had felt one step behind another agent, even though he'd been the only one to receive an assignment. Thinks back to all the times he'd felt tracked, or followed while out in the field. Thinks of how Hannibal had looked at him from the other end of the dining room in Mason's house.

"Will -."

"What's the price, Hannibal?" Will calls, harder now. He's confident that he's a better shot close-range. His shoulder is fucked up, and Hannibal is stronger, and bigger, but if he doesn't let Hannibal get close to him, he'll win.

After a moment, Hannibal sighs. "Seven-fifty."

Will huffs. "Same for you," he murmurs, and tilts his head up, eyeing the crack in the stairwell. He can see Hannibal's shadow, but not the man himself.

"So," he says, because he can't see Hannibal as his shadow moves away, can't hear him moving around, but if he keeps Hannibal talking, he can keep track of him. "You're the Ripper."

"And you're the Black Dog," Hannibal replies. "You work for Crawford."

"You work for Dolarhyde," Will says.

"Technically, I'm freelance," Hannibal's voice comes, and he sounds far away. Will swears, if he has a fucking secret entrance he's going to shoot him in the kneecap just on principle, because that's not fair.

"That must be nice," Will growls. "I sold my soul years ago." There's a pause, and he heaves a breath, closes his eyes.

"I don't want to kill you, Will," Hannibal says, and there is something hurt and quiet in his voice. "But if I refuse, they'll come for both of us."

Will wants to be angry about that, but it's true. One doesn't say 'No' to the likes of Crawford _or_ Dolarhyde.

He eyes the door to the garage. No, he can't go there – not enough places to flee, and he won't be caught in a trap again. He circles around, when he hears Hannibal descending the stairs, and ducks into the kitchen. The kitchen has two entrances – one from the hallway, one from the study. He goes through the second, puts his back to the second door.

He flinches when the door rattles, seconds after the sound of a bullet. It pierces and splinters the wood by his hip, and he snarls, fleeing from it, and to the other end of the study, into the kitchen. He ducks behind the island as he hears Hannibal move closer.

"I don't want you to be unhappy," Hannibal says, with another horribly sad sigh. "I suppose, one way or another, you won't be after this."

Will closes his eyes, grits his teeth, his shoulder aching and his eyes burning with unshed tears. He doesn't want to fight, doesn't want to attack, but he must, because Hannibal is right: it's Will or Hannibal now.

He waits, breath baited, until he sees the edge of Hannibal's silhouette in the kitchen doorway, and leans from behind the island, firing a few shots to get Hannibal to step back. His shoulder aches from the recoil, and he winces, gripping it and trying to massage the wound. He feels stitches give beneath his touch, feels fresh blood beading hot.

Hears Hannibal take a sharp breath in, and knows he can smell it.

"Are you injured?" he asks, and he sounds worried.

"Shoulder opened up," Will replies harshly, starting to sweat, and tremble. "I can deal."

Hannibal hums, and steps into the kitchen, and Will scrambles around the other side of the island, keeping it between them. He flees back towards the study, ducking his head to avoid another shot as a bullet whistles over his head and buries itself in one of the shelves in front of him.

His mouth twists. "You suck at this," he says, and ducks behind the door, but cannot linger. He goes to the second entrance, flees into the dining room, and freezes when he sees the second door is closed. The doorknob has been kicked out, so he can't open the door.

He's trapped.

Hannibal comes up behind him, grabs him before he can run, a hand jerking his hair sharply as Hannibal butts the muzzles of his gun into the exit wound on his shoulder. The sharp flare of pain is hard enough to send Will stumbling, and he turns his gun, intending to shoot behind him, but Hannibal knocks his hand away, sending the bullet off-kilter, a shattering of glass and an explosion of whiskey. He shot the bottle.

Hannibal lets go of his hair, grabs his wrist and twists it, shoots through the wound already in Will's shoulder to make him drop his other gun, and Will groans in pain, falling to his hands and knees. He rolls onto his back, grabs for his knife, but Hannibal sets his heel over his shoulder and digs in with it, making him drop that, too.

"The disadvantage of your hunting method," he says coolly, and kicks the knife away, so it goes skittering to a halt at the compromised door. "Blitz attacks mean you have no training for a prolonged fight."

Will glares up at him. Lifts his upper lip and snarls.

Hannibal's mouth twitches, and he regards Will, stepping back. Will kicks out at him, drives his heel against Hannibal's knee, viciously pleased when he hears it _snap_ , and hooks his other leg behind him, sending Hannibal to the ground. He rises quickly, pushes the gun away – he's only got one gun that Will can see, which is stupid, only having one weapon.

He straddles Hannibal's injured knee and punches him squarely in the jaw, sending his head snapping to the side. He can only use one arm, the other too wounded and bleeding too heavily for him to move it. He punches again, and Hannibal catches him this time, snarls and shoves the muzzle of his gun under Will's jaw, against his throat.

The muzzle is hot from being fired, and Will flinches, and goes still.

He shivers, but Hannibal doesn't shoot.

Hannibal is gazing up at him, too many emotions there that Will can't possibly read them all; pain, from his injuries; pride, that Will is still trying to fight when he's so obviously at a disadvantage; sorrow, because he won.

"Will," he breathes, and his grip turns tender on Will's wrist. He brushes his thumb along Will's weak pulse. "I don't think you've ever been more beautiful to me."

Will swallows, and closes his eyes. He thinks if those are the last words he ever hears, it's a good note to go on.

But Hannibal doesn't shoot. Doesn't shoot, doesn't move, merely breathes and when Will looks down at him, he sees Hannibal's eyes are bright with emotion.

"I don't want to hurt you," he confesses.

Will swallows. "You shot me," he says.

"Yes," Hannibal replies.

Will understands. "Guns lack intimacy." Hannibal's lips press together, and he lowers his gun – it's a plain, black thing, and looks clunky in his hand. Will takes his hand, curls both his own around it, careful with the trigger – this model's is sensitive. The sight on the gun digs into his chest, the muzzle still hot.

"Yes," Hannibal says.

"The Ripper's kills are intimate," Will continues.

"You know my work?"

He nods. Hannibal's face softens, and Will leans down, cups his face with his bloody hand and kisses him, as deeply and passionately as he always has. When Hannibal's grip on his gun goes slack, Will strikes; slams his hand against Hannibal's gut, winding him, and takes his gun away, scrambling to his feet.

Hannibal growls, and rolls to the side, taking one of Will's discarded guns and rising to his feet. They stand facing each other, locked and loaded and ready.

But Hannibal doesn't shoot. Will waited too long to do it while he was down. His hands never shake when he kills, but they tremble now.

He swallows, when Hannibal remains unmoving. Lifts his gun, drags the hammer back, and Hannibal's expression grows heavy with that resignation again. Will lunges, and Hannibal flinches from him.

"No," Will snaps, and jerks his gun. "I'm not supposed to win. _Fight_ _me_ ," he demands.

Hannibal sighs, and shakes his head. "No, darling," he says, and breathes out when Will makes a ragged, pained sound, and shoves the muzzle of his gun against Hannibal's temple. Hannibal's shoulders drop, his gun drops, and he shakes his head again. "I can't kill you."

"You think I'll be merciful, just because I love you?"

Hannibal presses his lips together, winces, and thumbs at his bruised jaw. "I don't know what you'll do. I never know what you'll do."

Of course. Will is unpredictable, always has been.

He can see it now, spanning out in front of him like a movie on the silver screen; sees himself pull the trigger, felling the man he loves, sees him crumble to nothing more than a husk of dead flesh and warm bones. Sees, instead, him dropping the gun and using his hands; choking the life out of Hannibal, slowly; or maybe he'll be more violent, and beat him until Hannibal's mouth floods with blood and his face is no longer recognizable.

Wonders if Hannibal would be smiling, through it.

His eyes fill with tears. "Damn it," he hisses, and jerks his gun again. Hannibal doesn't move, doesn't even twitch. He could disarm Will, since Will is aiming so unsteady and untrained. He feels like a fledgling on his first assignment, when things like morality hadn't yet succumbed to the knowledge of how viscerally pleasing it is to put down a bad man.

_The unspeakable truth, that doing bad things to bad people feels good._

"What am I supposed to do?" Will begs, demands. "I can't just walk away. Neither can you." Will won't allow that – one way or the other, this ends today.

Hannibal swallows, and turns, so that Will's gun is pressed to his forehead instead. His eyes meet Will's, dark, assured as he's always been, and he drops his gun.

"It's alright, darling," he says. But it's not alright, it's not _fucking alright_.

Will snarls, puts the hammer back in place and drops his gun as well, and it lands with a clatter at their feet. He wraps his fingers in Hannibal's shirt and hauls him forward, their mouths meeting in a sudden spark, a clack of teeth before they right themselves, turn left and left, and center, melting together as easily as anything.

"No," he growls, into the mouth of the man he loves. The man he could not possibly live without; the man who, just a second ago, could have killed him, and Will would have let him do it. Hannibal lets out a heavy, shuddering breath, and grips Will tightly, in his hair and on his hip, kissing him until Will's lungs burn.

They are both shaking, for not moments before they were trying to kill each other, but Will can't allow that – and he knows Hannibal can't either. Neither of them could survive separation. They are perfectly matched in darkness and violence, in more ways than Will could have possibly imagined, and he needs Hannibal – needs him like air and food and the blood-high. Needs, needs -.

"Hannibal," he breathes, as Hannibal's hands drag hot and reverent over his bare skin. One side of Will shines with sweat, the other with blood, and Hannibal grabs his hips, turns him and presses him to the edge of the table, growling when Will sits on it and parts his thighs, letting his husband rut between them.

Hannibal must understand what he's thinking, see that Will has made his decision; "I love you, Will," he murmurs, between one burning kiss and the next.

"I love you too," Will says, weak, so weak. "Nothing's taking you away from me."

His heart is racing as he clings to Hannibal, dizzy with adrenaline and lust as Hannibal grinds between his legs, paws at his hips with something a little too feral to be pure adoration. No, this is them as animals; they almost killed each other, for they were threats. Now, they must melt in a different way, because they have found their equal.

He lifts his hips as best he can, shoulder too compromised to be much help as Hannibal nips at his jaw, growls against his neck, pushes at Will's dirty clothes until one of his hands, warm and callused in a way Will knows, now, is from guns and knives and ropes and not scalpels and pencils, reaches in and coaxes his hardening cock out. He wraps his hand around Will's cock, stroking slowly, and Will shudders, moans loudly, and collapses onto his back on the table.

Hannibal's other hand wraps around the back of his neck, squeezing tightly, and Will shivers, bites his lower lip, and looks up at Hannibal through his lashes. Paws, with his good hand, and joins Hannibal's on his own cock.

"What are you doing, Hannibal?" he breathes, as Hannibal's fingers tighten, stroking down slowly. Hannibal is staring at him like a starving man, Will a feast. His wound leaks sluggishly, and Hannibal is standing off-kilter to compensate for his bad knee.

"What I should have been doing all along," Hannibal replies, and lifts his chin, spears Will with his gaze. He leans over Will, makes him bow upward, and kisses him savagely, his fingers tightening again as Will shudders, spreads his legs as wide as possible, and wraps his heels around Hannibal's thighs, careful of his injured knee. "You are mine, in all the ways that matter, and I'll be damned before I let you be taken from me, by my hand or any other."

Will smiles, delirious now from his rushing heart and the burgeoning warmth in his belly. He sighs against Hannibal's mouth, drags his shaking fingers through his sweaty hair, and whines when Hannibal uses the blood slicking his flank to wet his fingers, and returns his touch to Will's cock, the glide smoother now with Will's blood to wet the way.

"I'm not going anywhere," he whispers, panting the words, and Hannibal shivers above him, smiles, kisses him to rob Will of what little air he manages to get. Will's stomach sinks in, his shoulders tense sharp enough to send another heavy throb of pain down his spine, and he goes limp beneath Hannibal, sagging against the hand on his neck – tilts his head back, and Hannibal kisses wide and open-mouthed along his pulse.

"No more secrets," Hannibal says, rough and ragged. "No more lies, my love." He stiffens, like touching Will is a touch to himself, and ruts his erection between Will's thighs in slow, heaving things, like a panting beast. "I want every piece of you."

"I'm yours," Will says, and lets go of his cock to claw at Hannibal's shoulders, digging his nails through his shirt, as he feels his orgasm start to build, flexing like a tight knot of heat in his belly. He whimpers, kisses rough and open on Hannibal's cheek, and comes with a shudder, spilling hot and wet over Hannibal's hand and his stomach.

Hannibal snarls, lets his cock go, and pushes his hand into his own suit pants, wrapping his hand around his own erection in an obscene bulge. He comes with his nails in Will's nape and his teeth in Will's lip, biting down hard enough to bruise, to split it. Will moans when he does it, pets through his husband's hair until it's wet with blood and sweat and both of them are thoroughly ruined.

Hannibal's free hand, when it returns to Will's cheek, is dirty with both of them, and they are breathing heavy and ragged and fighting for air. Will kisses, at any piece of Hannibal he can reach, clings weakly and moans when Hannibal rises from him.

"Come," he says, and helps Will upright. "I must bind that shoulder again."

Will nods, too weak to resist, dizzy from the fight and then his orgasm. He sags against Hannibal, noses at his shoulder, paws at his hips.

"I love you," he says, because he must say it – if he is certain of nothing else, he is certain of that. He might forget his own name but he would know, in his bones, that he loves Hannibal.

"And I love you, my dear Will," Hannibal replies. Will's eyes close, too heavy to stay open.

 

 

He wakes again when the sky is dark, re-bound and clean, a new bag of blood feeding into his arm. Beside him, Hannibal, in their bed, the tray of soup sitting on the table behind him, the lamp on to illuminate his face and paint him gold.

He's reading a book, and shifts when Will does, closes it and sets it aside with a smile, and slides down in bed to settle on his side, facing Will. He reaches out, and pets through his hair, and Will sighs, lashes fluttering, aching in a way unrelated to the wound in his shoulder and the pain in his jaw.

Hannibal's mouth and face are swollen and dark with bruises, and Will stretches a leg out, feels a bandage around his knee. He huffs. "Sorry."

"Don't be," Hannibal replies. "You fought well."

"Not as well as you."

Hannibal smiles, and tucks his knuckles beneath Will's jaw. "I can teach you," he whispers, soft with promise.

Will smiles, carefully navigating the I.V. as he rolls onto his side, and presses close, tucking his face into Hannibal's neck. "Did you reply to the message?" he asks.

"Yes," Hannibal murmurs. "I told Francis that I would not do it."

Will hums. "Where's my phone?"

Hannibal pushes himself upright, grabs for Will's phone on the bedside table, and hands it to him. He watches, as Will opens his messages and types a reply to Beverly, saying he won't do it, and fuck Jack very much. He sends it off.

"They'll come for us," he says, and lifts his eyes to meet Hannibal's.

Hannibal nods, sighing. "Yes."

Will's eyes narrow.

Hannibal smiles, and pets through his hair. "I have numerous safehouses, contingency plans, and aliases. Some not even the Great Red Dragon in all his glory knows about. Enough for both of us." Will raises a brow, and Hannibal's smile widens. "Will, darling, the moment you became mine, that was it for me. I was never going to leave you behind."

Will sighs. "You're not worried?" Hannibal shakes his head. "I'm worried."

Hannibal nods. Tilts his head, expression oddly vulnerable, and murmurs; "Do you trust me?"

"Yes," Will replies, without hesitation. Of course he trusts Hannibal. How could he not?

But Hannibal must have doubted, for when he smiles, it is an expression alight with joy and relief. He leans in, and kisses gently at Will's mouth, mindful of each other's aches and pains. Will sighs into the kiss, his eyes closing.

He pets Hannibal's chest, and shivers. "I don't care who they send. How many they send. I'll kill anyone who comes after you," he says, and he means it, means it deeper than blood and bone. He'll put a bullet in the eye of anyone who so much as _looks_ at Hannibal the wrong way. And he knows, from the look in Hannibal's eyes, that the feeling is mutual. This is what he wants, what he has always wanted and resigned himself to never getting: passion, excitement, mutual trust and respect for a creature so much like himself. He needs Hannibal, every facet and piece of him; needs him protective, and determined, and fierce, and terrified. Hannibal can handle himself, can watch Will's back, and Will can trust and rely on him to do the same.

"Kiss me again," he demands, and Hannibal melts against him with a soft noise, tender lips parting so Will can taste him, taste the sweetness of new bruises and the ache on his tongue.

He stiffens when his phone chimes, and he opens it. 

 _New Mass Assignment_.

He looks at Hannibal, who regards him with dark, solemn eyes. "They move quickly," he murmurs.

Will nods, and opens the assignment:

_New Mass Assignment. Targets: Will Graham, aka "The Black Dog", and Hannibal Lecter, aka "The Ripper". Patrons: Jack Crawford and Francis Dolarhyde. $1mil for each, $3mil if both are caught alive. Considered heavily armed and extremely dangerous. Use of any and all force is authorized._

Will smiles. "Three million for the both of us alive," he says.

Hannibal's eyes glimmer with mirth. His own phone goes off, and he reaches for it, opening it. "Agent Hannibal Lecter and Agent Will Graham, termination status level three," he reads, and Will tilts his head, because he doesn't know what level three means. "All operatives assigned."

"'Level three'?" he repeats.

Hannibal nods, and breathes out through his nose. "It means the same as yours – use any and all force, be extremely careful, and if they take us alive, the reward is higher." Will nods, and sighs.

"At least they're consistent," he says with an off-kilter grin that Hannibal returns.

"I think if they weren't, agents would be more inclined to switch their loyalties," Hannibal says with a cavalier wave, setting his phone down. He settles on the bed again with a sigh. "Congratulations, my love; we are officially dead men walking."

Will hums. "I knew Crawford wouldn't just let me walk away," he says, sighing. He touches Hannibal's chest, curls his fingers loosely through the neck of his shirt. "I thought I could protect you – I thought you needed protecting. I was willing to do it forever, if I had to."

"And me as well, for you," Hannibal replies, and takes Will's hand, lifting it to kiss his knuckles. His head tilts, and his eyes flash with something terribly curious. "I wonder…what would happen, do you think, if something were to happen to Jack?"

Will frowns. Then his eyes widen. "You want to kill Jack?" he demands.

"Why not?" Hannibal replies with a shrug. "The Red Dragon is a homebody – if we leave the country, he will not chase us. He will call me a coward and that will be that. I sense Mister Crawford has eyes in many places."

"You -. I mean -." Will lets out a weak sound. "We can't just _kill_ Jack."

"And why is that?" Hannibal asks with a smile.

"Because we -." Will shakes his head, and huffs. "I couldn't do it alone."

"Darling," Hannibal purrs, and kisses his wrist. "You're not alone anymore. In truth, you never were." Will swallows, his chest growing warm and tight at the look in Hannibal's eyes. Hannibal's lashes go low, and his smile widens, and he rests their foreheads together with a soft, happy sound. "Let me help you."

Will's eyes drop, to their joined hands. Killing Jack was always an impossible thing to think – even the dark days when Will seriously considered fucking off to God knows where and hiding away forever. With Hannibal at his side, though….

"The Ripper and his Black Dog," he says, and grins when Hannibal laughs. "Seems fitting, don't you think?"

"I never particularly cared for the name, but yes – combined with yours, there is a certain ring to it."

Will laughs. He is reminded, seeing the gleam in Hannibal's eyes, of the first time they met, seeing Hannibal proud and fine on some sunny shore in Italy. Some part of Will must have sensed the killer, the danger in Hannibal even then, because looking at him now, he sees no difference. The years, the fights, the struggles have melted away, and Hannibal looks more alive, Will _feels_ more alive, than he has ever been before.

Finally, he swallows, and nods. "You're right," he murmurs, and tilts his head, catching Hannibal's mouth in a kiss. "I'm not alone anymore."

Hannibal smiles, bright and happy and so beautiful Will's breath catches. "Jack, then," he murmurs. "Then perhaps, if you're so inclined, Francis, just for the fun of it. Then, we can go wherever we wish."

Will smiles. "I like the sound of that."


End file.
